


affettuoso

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancer Stiles Stilinski, Exhibitionism, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Porn Star Derek Hale, Porn Star Stiles Stilinski, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek mentally kicks himself for just standing there like a lovestruck fool, but it’s been exactly forty-six days since he saw Stiles, and he still remembers the taste of his skin, how Stiles feels underneath him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	affettuoso

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vendelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vendelin/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to the amazing [ljummen!](http://ljummen.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you to [mikkimouse](http://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com), [fauvistfly](http://fauvistfly.tumblr.com), [spellwovennight](http://spellwovennight.tumblr.com), [infectiouspunk](http://infectiouspunk.tumblr.com), [sourwolfandsarcasm](http://sourwolfandsarcasm.tumblr.com), [metakate](http://metakate.tumblr.com) for reading through and cheering on.

**affettuoso.**  adj. musical direction: a piece that is meant to be played _tenderly_

 

Derek does a double take when he sees Stiles in one of the break rooms, standing there listening to the radio, eyes closed. He’s swaying slightly, nodding his head along to the music. It’s something classical Derek doesn’t recognize, haunting and beautiful.

Stiles looks slightly out of place with the modern furniture, skin luminous in the glow of the office lights. He’s wearing some sort of hipster getup today, pulling off a disheveled just-out-of-bed look crossed with some otherworldly fae creature. The clothes are simple enough, a loose-fitting sweater and some sort of trendy leggings— and what leggings they are, skintight and flesh colored, hugging the curves of his ass sinfully.

Derek knows he should probably announce his presence soon, but he’s content to just watch Stiles for a moment, drinking in his rare presence.  Stiles hardly ever comes into the studio; Derek has no idea what the exact stipulations of his contract are but he knows Stiles only films with them once every other month, and one time, memorably, twice one November.

(It’s not like Derek has memorized Stiles’ schedule, except it totally is.)

Derek was on his way to get lunch, or maybe for a meeting. He totally forgets what, standing there, a slow smile dawning on his face as he watches Stiles from the hallway.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hale,” Marisa says behind him, carrying a hefty camera and wobbling under the weight of bunch of extension cords.

Derek nods and steps out of the hallway and into the break room, letting her pass. He mentally kicks himself for just standing there like a lovestruck fool, but it’s been exactly forty-six days since he saw Stiles, and he still remembers the taste of his skin, how Stiles feels underneath him, how he sighs when Derek kisses him on the shoulder, the way his eyes glaze over as Derek slides inside him.

Pornstars aren’t supposed to pine for their co-stars. Fuck them, yes, maybe have an affair with them offscreen. Or actually declare their affection for one another and start dating, like Boyd and Erica, as Boyd so helpfully reminded Derek after he caught Derek yet again “moping and pining at videos.”

It wasn’t like that. Okay, maybe it was.

The last time Stiles was in the studio, after he left, Derek sat in his office, watching and rewatching their takes after Stiles had gone home, searching in every expression, every affectionate gesture, hoping he’d find something, anything to show that Stiles might feel the same way.

There had been the one night the power went out last February and there was nothing they could do to be productive, but Stiles had just hung out with Derek, sprawled out on the studio couch, practically sitting in Derek’s lap. They’d talked until the sun came up, and Derek knew it then.

He loves Stiles.

It’s hopeless, though, he knows.

Stiles’ eyes open, broken out of his reverie from Marisa’s voice, and his eyes flicker to Derek standing in the doorway. The sad, wistful look melts from his face, and his lips quirk up a bit in a semblance of a smile.

“Hey there,” Stiles says casually.

The tone is easy, veering towards Stiles’ usual snark, but there’s an underlying layer of longing that makes Derek’s heart ache. He doesn’t know why Stiles is unhappy, but he wants to fix it, wants to pull Stiles into his arms, kiss his forehead and tell him it’s going to be alright.

But that’s not the kind of relationship they have.

Stiles grins at him flippantly. “I’m getting fucked today. Wanna watch?”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Stiles has just renegotiated his contract with _After Dark,_ the erotic films studio that’s owned by the much larger entertainment franchise _Hale Studios._ Now Stiles has plans to shoot more videos, solo and with a partner. He’s on set to film another one today; Derek had no idea. Stiles has been shooting with them for a year, but it’s always been like clockwork, six shoots a year, spaced out evenly throughout the year, solo and partnered videos alternating. He’s only ever filmed with Derek. (It has nothing to do with the fact that Derek convinces all the other actors to take the day off when he sees Stiles on the schedule.)

They walk into the studio, past craft services and some of the crew putting finishing touches on one of the new sets, adjusting lights.

People nod at them— well, at Derek, who in the past month has been moving slowly (and finally) out of performing and into leadership and administration.

“Thought you went to lunch, Derek.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hale!”

Winks and smiles. “Having your lunch in your office, Derek? I can bring you some great menus to order from, if you’re going for fancy for you and your date.”

That last one makes Derek blush, but he ignores it, taking Stiles through the sets. They walk through the aisle of offices, and Stiles lets out a low whistle when he sees Derek’s name engraved on a door.

“Fancy fancy,” Stiles says. “Moving on up? No more fucking for you?”

Derek rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He doesn’t say that he could be CEO of _Hale Films_ (the entire studio, not just the _After Dark_ )and Stiles could show up and ask for a filming partner, and Derek would drop everything to work with him again. “Uh, you said you were on lot C today?”

Stiles nods, and Derek guides him towards the set, telling him about the changes to the studio since he saw Stiles last, and Stiles tells him about his newest favorite comic book arc. It’s easy to fall into conversation with him, and their fingertips brush more than quite a few times, making Derek’s stomach flutter nervously. Derek doesn’t know why Stiles always has this effect on him; they’ve been remarkably intimate and yet he still blushes at every slight touch.

“Haven’t figured out the partner bit yet, since this is my first day as a studio regular, but Peter said Jordan might be looking for a new partner…”

“Jordan just got engaged,” Derek blurts out.  Actually, Derek _does_ know that Jordan Parrish’s very capable fiancée has zero problems with him having sex on camera with other partners, but Stiles doesn’t need to know that.

Stiles frowns. “Oh. Okay then. I don’t think anyone else was available on the list Peter gave me, so…”

Lot C looms ahead of them, already busy with crew setting up lights and cameras. This would be the last moment to have any sort of private conversation with Stiles.

“I could— I could work with you,” Derek says, trying to sound like it’s an offhand suggestion, like it doesn’t mean anything, and a rejection isn’t going to break his heart.

“Yeah?” Stiles turns to give him a bright smile. “You’re not too busy with admin stuff? Thought you were working on being a big hotshot producer.”

Derek does have a few meetings this afternoon with screenwriters and the director of his newest project, an indie film about the Jaws Effect and shark protection. He’s been really excited about it, but… Stiles is here.

“I love—” _you_ — “working with you,” Derek says, catching himself just in time.

Stiles’ face lights up and he rushes forward into Derek’s space. Derek’s expecting a hug; he opens his arms just as Stiles throws himself into them.

The kiss takes him by surprise.

It’s whirlwind quick, a flash of hot and wet, chaste compared to anything they’ve done before, but Derek is completely dazed, frozen to the ground where he stands. Stiles just _kissed_ him. And not for a film or anything either, just— out of the blue— maybe— because he wanted to?  

Stiles beams at him, blushing slightly as he pulls back. “Ah, sorry, I was just really excited— I love working with you too. Um. Yeah. That was for practice.”

“Practice,” Derek echoes, reaching out to touch his lips.

Stiles nods, shuffling backwards. “I’ll see you on set, okay! I’m gonna get some water…”

And then Stiles races off.

 

* * *

 

Derek rearranges his schedule without much fuss, although Peter gives him a knowing smirk when he walks back towards Lot C. Michael in wardrobe blinks at him when Derek tells him yes, he’s here to do the shoot.

“You haven’t filmed in like, over a month, I don’t know if we still have any of the stuff that fits you,” Michael says nervously, going through a rack of clothes.

“Can’t I just wear what I’m wearing?” Derek looks down at the trim navy blue suit he put on this morning, expecting to meet with clients. He spots his reflection in the mirror; he looks good. Smart. Pulled together. He turns around to look in the mirror and hopes Stiles will think his butt looks nice.

Michael sighs. “We’re going to have to redecorate the set, go for an office theme or something.” He starts talking rapid fire into his radio, and then Derek is hustled to makeup to make sure he’ll look fine under the lighting, and then he’s on the set.

It’s been hastily redecorated from a college dorm room to an office set. The bedroom furniture has been pulled aside and is sitting off set, and a sleek chrome desk has been brought in. Crew members bring in a potted plant, a fake diploma, stacks of files and paperwork. Derek makes a mental note that their set decorators should get a raise; within minutes, the bare room becomes a passable corporate office. Someone forgot a “GO TEAM” pennant hanging on the wall, though. Derek pulls it down, shaking his head.

Stiles walks onto the set in not a suit, but a cardigan and jeans. The cute and nerdy look is complete with a pair of black frame glasses and a beanie slung lopsidedly on his head. He looks adorable. Business casual.

Stiles does a little twirl for him, laughing. “So I’m Q and you’re Bond?” Stiles suggests.

Derek shakes his head. “Copyright issues. Besides, Q doesn’t wear beanies.” He pulls down the thing down over Stiles’ eyes, chuckling.

Stiles bats his hands away and pulls the beanie back up so he can see, and then goes for Derek’s tie, pulling him close.

Derek’s breath hitches and he can see the moment when Stiles’ playful smirk goes thoughtful, and his lips part—

There’s a sharp whistle and Finstock, the director, steps forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, let’s get to fucking! Standard office scene, the two of you are good at improv, all your other sets have gone well without scripts. We’ll do Derek as the boss, Stiles the intern, looking for a pay raise?”

Derek frowns. “Kinda cliche, and—”

“How about Stiles the intern, finding out Derek the boss has been stealing his ideas and challenges him over it?” Stiles grins mischievously. He pushes the glasses up the bridge of his nose and winks at Derek.

Finstock rolls his eyes. “Whatever. As long as someone gets dicked down.” He shuffles backwards until he’s off the staging area, and stands with the main camera crews. “You all ready?”

Derek nods, and Stiles makes a mock-salute before disappearing out the stage door. Derek sits back down at the desk, idly pretending to look busy, shuffling some paperwork.

“Action!”

Stiles barges into the room. “I do not _believe_ you!” He points at Derek accusingly and drops a pile of paperwork on the desk. “This report! These are my words! I can’t believe you _plagiarized_ me!”

“Sti— uh—” Derek totally forgets what Stiles’ character’s name is supposed to be. He glances towards Finstock, who just mouths _keep going,_ waving his hands at them. “The report,” he says awkwardly.

“I demand retribution,” Stiles says, and it’s so cheesy, but it works. Stiles’ eyes flash with determination, and he grabs Derek by the tie, yanking him up into a hard, furious kiss.

Derek’s eyes close, and he reaches up to cup Stiles’ cheeks, kissing him back enthusiastically. The kiss slows down, and Derek savors the taste of Stiles on his tongue.

Stiles’ eyelashes flutter against Derek’s cheek, and his eyes open mid-kiss. He gasps, pulling back just enough, their faces still close enough for the cameras. “What are you doing?” Stiles whispers.

“Kissing,” Derek responds.

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to be angry sex,” Stiles whispers back. “Our characters hate each other.”

“Do they have to?” Derek kisses Stiles again at the corner of his mouth. He feels pleased when Stiles’ lips curve up in a soft smile, and pulls back, a sudden idea coming to him.

He adjusts his tie, and steps around the desk to face Stiles. “Did you look at the report in depth?” Derek shakes a random sheaf of papers at him.

Stiles furrows his brow, confused. “No.”

“Your name is on it.” Derek smiles at him, stepping on the desk. “I sent you an email… you have really good ideas, you know. I want you promote you to partner.”

“I— uh, professionally? Personally?” Stiles’ eyebrows knit together.

Derek hooks a finger in one of Stiles’ belt loops, and tugs him closer. “Both,” Derek announces.

Stiles looks like he’s pretending not to laugh, and Derek shrugs a little. It’s not like people watch these things for the acting or the plot.

“I accept,” Stiles says, and Derek takes this as cue to kiss him again.

It feels just as good as every other kiss they’ve had, and Stiles turns it filthy immediately, biting on Derek’s lip and slowly sucking on it, grinding mercilessly against Derek until they’re both hard.

The lights are hot and blazing down on them, the set is fake and cameras are filming away, but Derek always forgets when he films with Stiles. They’re in their own world now, and there’s nothing but Stiles’ mouth, hot and sweet, the way Stiles’ hand drag over Derek’s ass, pulling him closer, their clothed cocks rubbing against each other.

Stiles gasps for breath when they pull apart again, eyes golden brown, pupils dilated and dark with desire. Derek drags his mouth along Stiles’ jaw, tonguing at his throat, down his collarbone, wanting more skin to taste. Stiles strips out of his cardigan and the undershirt, and then unzips his jeans as well, dropping them to the floor. He steps out of his shoes, kicking them aside, and strides towards Derek, naked.

Derek swallows back a nervous gulp. He wants to say Stiles is beautiful, but he can’t.

Instead, he grabs Stiles by the hand and spins him around so his ass is flush with Derek’s clothed hips. Stiles grinds down, moaning as Derek reaches out and grips his cock, stroking him quickly. He’s hard and hot under Derek’s hand, cock dripping with precome and anticipation. Stiles turns around to kiss Derek, sighing with pleasure as Derek jerks him, alternating between rough and fast to slow and teasing.

Derek’s other hand holds Stiles by the hip, and then wanders around the curve of his supple ass. He’s wet and slick with lube already; Derek’s fingers slip inside easily, opening him up easily. Derek stretches Stiles possessively, wondering which fluffer had the job of stretching him, touching him slowly, easing their fingers into him. Derek wants to be the one who does everything for Stiles, wants to see him at every stage of pleasure.

“Fuck me, please—”

Derek kisses Stiles’ pleas away, drinking in the taste of him, the sight of his bare skin, flushed pink with arousal, rubbing up against Derek’s suit. Stiles ruts shamelessly against him, the curve of his ass hitting Derek’s clothed cock with every movement.

Derek has to stop touching Stiles for the briefest of moments, just so he can unzip. Someone out of frame hands him a condom, and Derek unwraps it, tossing the wrapper aside. He wishes he could spend more time here, stretch Stiles out on a bed, maybe rim him until he’s absolutely wrecked, giving him every bit of pleasure he deserves.

As it is, Derek can see Finstock making a _hurry up_ gesture off the stage, and Derek doesn’t even bother undoing his belt. He rolls on the condom as Stiles shakes his hips impatiently at him. Derek smacks one cheek playfully, and Stiles gasps, “Oh boss, do it again, I’ve been so bad…”

Derek is tempted to say that doesn’t fit in the storyline, but he’s distracted by the mark on Stiles’ asscheek, the way it blooms, bright and pink, darkening in color. He grabs handfuls of Stiles’ ass, spreading his cheeks to see the pink furl of his hole, shiny and open for him.

Stiles turns around, but he doesn’t reach for Derek to kiss, just looks at him, darkened amber eyes wide and beseeching. “Please, Derek, need you now,” Stiles whispers, voice broken up in harsh, labored breaths.

Derek gives it to him.

He pushes in deep, feels Stiles shudder in around him in tight velvet heat. Derek means to give it a moment, for Stiles to adjust— they already got the money shot of Derek thrusting into him hard the first time, he can relax and—

Stiles cries out and grinding his ass up against Derek, goading him on, trying to fuck himself on Derek’s cock. “Come on, boss man, got me here and you’re not even—”

Well then.

Derek grabs Stiles’ hips for leverage, and then he starts thrusting with rapid abandon. It’s quick and dirty and feels incredible, the way Stiles grinds back to meet him with every thrust. The view is nothing short of spectacular, too; the way Stiles’ naked body quivers in front of him, his face going slack in pleasure. Derek leans forward to press his face into Stiles’ neck, kiss the skin there, feel Stiles’ heartbeat on his tongue.

 

[nsfw image ahead, click to skip]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~

 

_[Image description: He loops an arm to catch Stiles round the waist, and Stiles groans, tugging on his own cock as Derek fucks him. ]_

_~_

He loops an arm to catch Stiles round the waist, and Stiles groans, tugging on his own cock as Derek fucks him. Stiles’ knuckles turn white as he grips himself, jerking himself to abandon. Derek wants to still his hand, slow down the mad rush towards orgasm, but they’re already pushing the edge with how hard and fast they’re moving, Derek can already feel his whole body— every nerve singing _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_ , tingling with heightened senses, the way Stiles’ pale thighs look caught next to Derek’s dress slacks, the dirty rawness of just fucking standing up— he’s close, so close—

Derek can feel the moment Stiles comes; his body clenches tight with orgasm, and Stiles lets out a hitched— “Der—” and he’s spilling all over his hand, shuddering with it. Derek holds him steady, trying to keep it together for one more thrust—

Stiles turns around and kisses him then, mouth insistent and honeyed sweet, and Derek is caught off guard at how tender it is. He’s caught up in Stiles everywhere— the slow, sweeping kiss, the pressure of being inside him— and Derek loses control, coming on the next exhale, emptying himself inside Stiles in a soft shudder.

They stand there for a long moment, Derek resting his head on Stiles’ soft hair, feeling Stiles’ heart rate come down, holding him close. He wants to tell Stiles he wants more for them, wants everything—

“Alright, good job. Hit the showers, you two.” Finstock blows the whistle again, and the crew starts to clear out.

Derek and Stiles are both handed towels, and Stiles eases himself off Derek slowly. He turns around with a slow, sated smile, wiping himself with the towel. Derek cleans himself and tucks himself back in, zipping up so he’s dressed for the walk towards the showers, but Stiles has no such qualms. He walks casually, complimenting Marisa on her camerawork and telling people good job and thanks right and left.

The showers are empty, most of the stalls closed off with caution tape; part of the studio’s renovation. There are two working stalls on the end, though, and Stiles walks in, sighing under the hot steaming water. He hums to himself, dragging fingers through his hair, water sluicing down the hollow of his neck.

Derek turns and undresses, focusing on his own shower. The steam does little to disguise that the stalls were designed for efficiency, not privacy, and at Derek’s height he can see the pleased tilt of Stiles’ lips, the way his eyes flutter in satisfaction as he massages shampoo into his scalp, the rivulets of water trickling down his torso. Derek turns and looks at his own shower wall, at the faucets, rinsing himself quickly, but he can still hear Stiles making happy noises next to him, wet and naked.

They sound like sex noises, and Derek turns his water to cold when he realizes he’s getting hard again.

“That was incredible,” Stiles says.

“What?” Derek turns to look, and regrets it immediately. Stiles has soap bubbles clinging to his eyelashes, and little tufts of soap in his hair. It’s adorable and he wants to reach over and wipe it away.

“You. Us. I almost forgot how good your cock feels, like the girth of it— and fuck, when you just pushed in—” Stiles makes an identical sound here to the one when they were fucking, and despite the cold water, Derek finds himself hard. Again. He looks over at Stiles’ eyes closed in imagined bliss. “It was really difficult not to come then and there.”

“Yeah. Uh. The sex. It was good.” Derek finishes rinsing and turns his water off. He steps out of the shower stall, dries himself slowly off with the towel; in Stiles’ stall he can hear the faucets squeak, water turning off as well, leaving the bathroom silent except for a slow, rhythmic _drip drip_ on the tile.

The curtain rattles when Stiles steps out. He doesn’t take his towel, just stands there, naked and giving Derek an appraising look. Stiles steps closer, a smirk starting on his lips, and he stretches, watching Derek watch him.

A loud rumble echoes through the bathroom, and Stiles grabs his stomach with an embarrassed lurch. “Ah, sorry bout that, skipped lunch before arriving at the studio. Um.” Stiles blinks, like he’s lost his train of thought.

“We could get food, there’s a great pizza place down the street.” Derek’s heart is beating so quickly— he’s never asked Stiles to hang out outside the studio before, this is new territory, it’s almost like a—

“Why, Derek Hale, are you asking me on a date?” Stiles tilts his head, amused.

“I—” Derek can’t help that he wants very much for this to be a date, despite how casual his tone was. He should just go for it, get the rejection over with quicker, especially now that Stiles is going to be a studio regular. Derek’s going to have to see him all the time, be able to spend so much time talking to him and falling more in love. “Yes. I’m asking you on a date.” Derek hangs his head slightly, staring at the wet tiles on the floor so he doesn’t have to look at Stiles when he gets turned down.

Even Stiles’ feet are cute.

“Yeah— yeah, I’d like that.” Stiles says, after a moment.

“I— what?” Derek looks up and Stiles is smiling so broadly, his entire face is lit with joy.

“On a date! This is gonna be awesome, I always thought you were just kind of shy, or maybe you weren’t into me, like, outside of filming, but— yeah, I am so down. You— I— you’re the reason why I kept coming back, you know, even when I got my other job, except…” Stiles trails off a little. “Anyways, you were saying, pizza?”

Stiles takes Derek’s hand and tugs him towards the door.

“Shouldn’t we get dressed first!?” Derek calls out, looking at Stiles’ bouncing ass.

~

They do get dressed, although Derek isn’t sure seeing Stiles in those leggings is much of an improvement over the nudity. That fabric _clings_ obscenely, and the sweater is so large it hangs off Stiles’ shoulder, exposing his neck and collarbones. Stiles would be gorgeous in any way, clothed or otherwise, but this outfit in particular does something to Derek.

For all that Derek thought being on a date with Stiles would be nerve-wracking and a lot of pressure, it isn’t. It’s just as easy to slide back into the familiar teasing banter, the comfortable conversations they’ve had before, only this time they have the luxury of time— there’s no filming hanging over their head, a deadline for their time to end. And the intimate, casual touching— Stiles leaning into Derek’s space to take a bite of his pizza, his hand on Derek’s thigh; Stiles pushing a milkshake at Derek, flicking a dob of whipped cream at him, Derek licking it off Stiles’ fingers.

And they talk, easy as Derek remembers. As the waiter clears their empty plates, Stiles leans into Derek, and when Derek tentatively bumps back, Stiles laughs and grabs his arm, pulling it around his shoulders.

“You’ve fucked me and now you’re too shy to put your arm around me? What gives?” Stiles whispers, making Derek blush.

He buries his face in Stiles’ neck, inhaling the scent of skin and fresh soap, pleased how Stiles turns to cup his chin up and bring him up for a soft, sweet kiss.

“You two are so cute. How long have you been together?” the waiter asks, setting down the check.

“This is our first date,” Stiles says, winking at him. “But we totally have had sex, a ton. We’re super kinky like that. In fact, he was balls deep in me just earlier—”

“Stiles,” Derek says, turning bright red and horrified. He claps a hand over Stiles’ mouth, and to his relief the waiter just laughs, turning to tend to his other tables.

Stiles licks Derek’s palm and grins when Derek yelps and drops his hand. “You are the best date. We’re gonna be awesome!” Stiles announces, grabbing Derek’s cheeks and kissing him again.

Derek is too bewildered and overjoyed to say anything else but yes.

 

* * *

 

Dating Stiles is like nothing Derek’s ever experienced before. They argue constantly over small things, incessant things, but it’s fun and ridiculous with no heat to it, and the makeup sex is always incredible. They film together occasionally in the studio, but one day Stiles stumbles onto one of their other sets— for full length movies, not porn— one of the indie films Derek has been producing, and spends two hours training a horde of extras to actually look like a dance troupe. Stiles seems to have a knack for choreography, and he renegotiates his contract again, working with the actors and extras on their mainstream films on a daily basis, and moves back to filming porn with Derek about once or twice a month. It’s not like the studio is thirsting for models; they’ve got a full set constantly in rotation, and Derek is relieved to have more time for his administration duties.

And they don’t have _less_ sex just because they’re not filming it. So much sex, in and out of the studio, in Derek’s office, in Derek’s car, on every surface of Derek’s apartment. It’s exhilarating and wonderful, to have the luxury to spend hours mapping every surface of Stiles’ body with his tongue, worshipping him slowly, giving him the kind of slow, drawn-out pleasure Derek has always wanted to. Stiles is a generous lover in kind; coming up with creative ways to take Derek apart, spending hours in bed curling his fingers into Derek’s hair, kissing down his torso, slowly rocking his body in rhythm with Derek.

Where Derek once spent long hours after work and came home to an empty apartment, ate a bland dinner and fell asleep in front of the TV. Now his nights and weekends are filled with life and color, Stiles’ bright laughter, sweet kisses, sensually flavorful foods. Stiles leads Derek through the city’s museums, exploring new restaurants, having rampant discussions about their different taste in comics and movies. It’s like Derek’s world has gone from grayscale to technicolor in a matter of a few weeks, and he can’t ever imagine going back.

Derek wakes up one morning and pads to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, smiling at the extra toothbrush in his cabinet. In the distance he can hear Stiles singing merrily to himself, the sound of something sizzling on the stove.

“Pancakes are almost done! I hope you’re awake!” Stiles calls.

“In a minute!”  
Derek walks into the kitchen and can’t help cracking a grin. Stiles is wearing one of Derek’s henleys, a stretched out one he only wears to sleep— and only that. It’s oversized and ridiculous, almost thin to the point of transparency, and his pert naked ass shakes a little as Stiles hums and dances, sliding the edge of a spatula underneath a pancake.

Derek sneaks up behind him, pressing his body up next to Stiles and kisses his neck. “Good morning.”

Stiles makes a pleased hum as Derek slides a hand underneath the shirt, and then laughs, wriggling out of the hold. “You keep that up and breakfast is gonna burn,” he says, shaking the spatula at Derek.

Derek shrugs.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mister-I-Have-A-Meeting-With-Twentieth-Century-Fox-Today, Stiles-I-Need-To-Get-To-Work-On-Time, We-Shouldn’t-Stay-Up-All-Night-Having-Sex, Okay-We-Did-But-Don’t-Let-Me-Sleep-In.”

Derek slaps Stiles’ ass lightly, grinning. “Meeting’s at ten. We can totally get in a quickie.” He goes for a kiss, savoring the sweet taste of Stiles’ lips.

Stiles kisses back enthusiastically for a second, and then wrenches himself away. “You’ve got a meeting with Peter at nine. And I have to teach an army of extras that need to look like Broadway dancers at nine, which means I need to get in the shower. You finish this.”

Derek’s potential boner now dead at the mention of his uncle, he accepts the spatula and finishes flipping the pancakes. It feels good, right, for Stiles to be here, in his home. He hasn’t told Stiles he loves him yet— that would be too fast, he thinks. As would asking him to move in, but Derek can’t help but bask in the happy glow of the minute domestic details that make him smile.

He sets the table, putting out the pancakes and pouring Stiles a cup of orange juice with no pulp. Derek pours his own glass with the juice (with pulp, because Stiles is a heathen but Derek will buy him his own juice anyways), and grabs silverware. There’s a tray of bacon keeping warm in the oven, so he pulls that out too, and brings three different syrups from the cupboard. When did he get all these? Boysenberry, maple syrup, raspberry syrup. They must be Stiles’, Derek’s never bothered making pancakes for himself before, let alone have syrup in his apartment.

Some of Stiles’ things are still on the table, some books, his laptop bag, his iPod. The thing is actually still playing, tinny music coming from the earbuds. Derek puts one curiously in his ear, just to see what Stiles was listening to. A new hip hop song, lively and upbeat, probably what Stiles was bouncing around singing earlier.

Derek presses next.

The iPod shuffles to the next song; it’s strangely quiet for a moment, and then an orchestra begins to play. The melody is familiar— it’s a classical piece, haunting and beautiful, the same piece Stiles had been listening to in that break room that day. The orchestra swells with longing in Derek’s ear, and he looks at the iPod screen to see what it is. _Tchaikovsky: Swan Lake, Op. 20. Boston Symphony._ The cover art is a silhouetted shot of ballet shoes.

Stiles likes ballet music? Derek is fascinated. They’ve talked a lot, about Derek’s business degree and Stiles’ own vague degree in “dance,” but he’s never heard Stiles talk about ballet at all. Is it a secret passion? Derek realizes that this track is on a playlist called NYCB, which is filled with hundreds of songs, all different composers and … different ballet shows? He doesn’t understand all the terminology, but exploring the music library and the different playlists shows not just the NYCB playlist filled with music, but other playlists Derek had previously assumed were filled with the other kind of music Stiles has talked about— pop, rock, metal, hip hop, rap, punk.

But some of these lists are filled with what look like exclusively the kind of music used in ballet— these are all classical scores, arranged meticulously in different lists that don’t quite make sense, like “Scott’s butt” and “Jackson can suck it” and “Allison is a pretty pretty princess.”

One of the lists yells triumphantly in all caps, “FUCK YEAH BIG BREAK,” and Derek opens it, eager to see what excited Stiles so much. The playlist seems to be many variations of different symphonies performing the same few songs; there are at least twelve versions of a song called _Pas de trois, Benno Variation, Ballet Solo._ Derek plays one; it’s lively and playful, majestic. He doesn’t know the story, but he imagines a prince holding court, handsome and graceful.

“Aw, babe, you set the table,” Stiles croons, walking up and planting a wet kiss on Derek’s cheek. He slides into his seat, tugging at Derek to sit down. “Whatcha listening to?”

“Um, _Anaconda,”_ Derek says randomly, the flickering of an idea beginning in his head. It’ll be a fantastic surprise. He puts the iPod back on shuffle, clicks through a few songs, and takes off the headphones, sliding all of it towards Stiles.

“My anaconda— don’t!” Stiles starts, laughing as he pours boysenberry syrup all over his pancakes. “Don’t worry, your buns are ah-MAY-zing. My anaconda _does,_ so much.”

“I know,” Derek says, deadpan. “I can still feel it.”

Stiles waggles his eyebrows at him and points at Derek, grinning. His mouth is stuffed full, and there’s purple syrup dripping down his lips, and he looks ridiculous.

Derek just loves him so much.

 

* * *

 

Finding a show is easy; apparently, the New York City Ballet just started their run of _Swan Lake._ Derek’s family has had box seats forever, so even though the show is sold out, he gets tickets for Friday evening’s performance.

Derek takes Stiles out to dinner; a fancy Italian place that he tells Stiles is an excuse for them to get dressed up. Stiles grumbles about it, but he likes it, if the way his eyes linger on Derek’s suit and the frantic kissing before they even leave for the restaurant is anything to go by.

The food is delicious and amazing;  Stiles orders some sort of pesto gnocchi that he spends half the time waxing poetic about and the other half coaxing it into Derek’s mouth, and then occasionally stealing pieces of the succulent lamb chop Derek ordered. They drink a bottle of red wine together, and Derek feels flushed and content.

Stiles’ foot is inching up his calf when Derek blurts out, “I have a surprise for you.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow and nudges his foot into Derek’s lap. “Are you wearing a butt plug?”

“I— what? No.” Derek blushes, and he glances around. The restaurant is quiet and subdued, each table its own island of privacy, lit barely by the soft candles on the center of each table. He lowers his voice anyways. “Is that something you would like?”

Stiles leans forward and blinks innocently at him. “Yes. Are we having our kinks discussion now?”

“Uh—”

“How are you gentlemen doing? More wine? Dessert, perhaps?”

Stiles reaches for the offered dessert menu eagerly, and Derek peers over the menu with frantic eyes. “I have a surprise…” he whispers.

Stiles’ eyes widen. “No dessert, we’re done, thank you!”

The waiter takes the menu and leaves.

Stiles leans over the table, a mischievous grin on his face. “Is it a _vibrating_ butt plug?”

“No, Stiles— I already said I’m not wearing a plug.” Derek can’t believe they’re having this conversation in a four-star restaurant. “Maybe next time, okay? We can do that… kink discussion you wanted to, and um, learn about what we like and stuff. But, tonight, I got us tickets.”

“Tickets?”

Derek nods. “Remember when like you went through my entire bookshelf and my DVD collection, and you were like ‘Feel free to look through my stuff anytime, I just like learning about you and you should me…?”

“Yes. I have no idea why you keep all your college textbooks, but your practicality turns me on, what can I say.”

“So I was looking through your iPod the other day, and I thought of something you might like.” Derek reaches in his pocket nervously. “I thought it would be fun to surprise you when we get there? Do you want to put on this blindfold?” He takes the coil of black silk out of his pocket.

“Oooh, yes, gimme,” Stiles takes it and ties it round his eyes. It droops onto his nose and he giggles.

“Here.” Derek stands up and gently ties the blindfold snug, and then he kisses Stiles gently on the nose. “You ready?”

Derek takes Stiles by the hand, leading him into the foyer where he takes care of the bill and asks the host to call them a taxi. While they’re waiting, Stiles is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, giddy with excitement. He makes grabby hands towards the air until Derek takes them, chuckling as Stiles pulls him close.

Stiles nuzzles into Derek’s chest. “You are the best boyfriend,” he says. “I don’t even know what the surprise is, but you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make me happy.”

Derek wonders if this is the appropriate time to say _I love you._ They’ve been dating for twenty-two days… probably not. He wraps his arms around Stiles instead and kisses his forehead.

“Do I get a hint? Of what the surprise is? Other than you’ll think I’ll like it?”

“Um…” Derek tries to cast for something vague. “Remember that first day you came back to the studio?”

“Oh, yeah. I changed my contract, and was worried about who I’d be filming full-time with. And then I found you, and you said you wanted to work with me, and it was so amazing, like I’d missed you a lot, but didn’t think I could say so—”

“Wait, you missed me?” Derek looks down at Stiles, who is nodding into his chest.

“Yeah. I was so happy that you wanted to work together again, like I didn’t know if it would be just the one time and then you’d be off doing your hotshot producer stuff, and I—”

“You kissed me. Said it was for practice.” Derek thinks about how surprised he was, how pleased he was with the kiss, that it wasn’t part of filming, or acting...just a moment for him and Stiles.

Stiles peeks out from under the blindfold. “I just wanted to kiss you. Once. You know, without the pretense. And then I chickened out and said it was for practice. But it didn’t matter, I guess, since you asked me out right after that. Everything worked out.”

Derek can’t help but agree.

They get in the taxi, and Stiles’ blindfold gets readjusted again. Derek is nervous on the way to the theater, and the tickets in his jacket pocket seem to burn. He hopes Stiles will like it— he had the most music from _Swan Lake,_ so maybe it’s been a lifelong dream of his to see the show. Tickets can be expensive, but— oh no, what if Stiles thinks it’s too extravagant of a gift?

The taxi pulls up to the curb, and Derek can hear the crowd of patrons excitedly milling about the street in front of the theater. He pays the driver, watching Stiles perks up in interest as Derek opens the door and leads him out.

“Alright, you ready?”

Stiles nods, a delighted smile on his face. “So excited!”

Derek unties the blindfold, and makes a grand gesture at the theater, the shining lights, the people dressed in their finest, the sign that says _Swan Lake_.

Stiles freezes, and the smile falls off his face instantly.

Derek reaches out to him, trying to read Stiles’ face. It’s not happy, that’s for sure— a mix of shock and fear is tightening his expression, and Stiles is shaking slightly. “Stiles?”

“Wow, Derek. Um, the ballet. That’s— you—” Stiles smiles nervously and squeezes Derek’s hand.

“If you don’t like it we can do something else,” Derek says immediately. “I’m sorry if—”

“No, it’s okay. I do really love the ballet. You just— yeah, it’s a surprise. And I have been wanting to see this show, so. And I know tickets are really difficult to get.” Stiles places a quick kiss on Derek’s cheek. “Thank you, Derek.”

“If you’re sure,” Derek says hesitantly.

“I’m sure.”.

On their private balcony, Stiles lets out a soft whistle, patting the luxurious seats and admiring the view of the stage. He flips through the program with interest, and seems to be enjoying himself, so Derek relaxes.

The theater darkens, and a hush falls over the crowd.

Derek tries his best to follow the story, but he thinks he’s missing a certain higher level of understanding— he figured out there’s a prince, and a princess who will get turned into a swan (well, that part he gathered from the program, but really, no one is wearing a swan costume, but that dress is awful feathery… did it happen yet? Maybe Derek missed it.)

There’s no dialogue, just music and dancing— and it’s spectacular. The dancers command the stage easily, bringing to life joy and expectation and hope and majesty. And they stand on their _toes._ Their toes! Derek is impressed.

He turns to look at Stiles, who is watching with a rapt, devouring expression. He follows every movement, eyes widening with awe, darting from one dancer to the next. Stiles’ body sways to the music, and he takes in every move, every leap, every pirouette, completely enthralled, his eyes never leaving the stage.

Derek smiles, taking Stiles’ hand and squeezing, and Stiles takes a second to turn and grin at him before turning his attention back to the dancers.

On stage, there’s a royal court scene, and a dancer— not the prince, who Derek recognizes by his darker skin and crooked jaw, but another male character (they’re supposed to be friends, Derek thinks)- takes the stage in a solo performance. Derek recognizes the song he heard in Stlies’ iPod, the one he had multiple versions of in that one playlist.

He turns to look at Stiles, expecting more of the same fascination— this could be his favorite song, after all. Instead, Stiles is tense with anger, glaring at the stage with frustration, at the dancer. And then he slumps back into his chair.

Derek leans in to whisper, “Do you want to leave?” He doesn’t know why Stiles is reacting this way, but he wants him to be comfortable.

Stiles shakes his head resolutely, folds his arms, and continues watching the show. He still seems to enjoy most of it, although the same dejected sadness Derek saw that day in the breakroom now hangs over Stiles like a cloud.

Stiles still stands up at the curtain call, when all the dancers take the stage and bow. He claps ferociously, and then sighs with relief.

It would probably be too much to ask Stiles to come over tonight. Maybe they could get coffee or something, or talk about it? Derek isn’t sure. He’s torn between Stiles saying that he did like the ballet and the surprise, and the obvious unhappy reactions Stiles had to watching the performance.

They walk down to the lobby, where patrons are talking excitedly among themselves, purchasing souvenirs, CDs and t-shirts and things.

“Do you want to go get coffee or something?” Derek asks.

“Let’s just go back to your place,” Stiles says.

“I’m sorry if—”

“It’s fine, Derek. I just don’t feel like talking about it. Thanks for the evening— I know you worked hard to make it special. Let’s just— get out of here.” Stiles bites his lip, staring at the floor.

“Okay.”

Outside the theater there are patrons clamoring as well; apparently the dancers are starting to leave the stage from the side door, and people are swarming them for autographs and well-wishes.

The night air is cold, and Derek wraps an arm and Stiles, rubbing his thumb against Stiles’ back. He signals for a taxi, but almost everyone else has the same idea, so it’s a bit of a wait.

“Stiles? _STILES!”_

There’s a commotion from the patrons at the side door, and then a man breaks free of the crowd, running for them. Derek recognizes him as the prince— still wearing his stage makeup and dressed in a comfortable looking sweater and sweatpants, an ecstatic grin on his face as he rushes towards them. There’s a woman following him, with dark curling hair and a pleased smile, a warm coat wrapped tightly around her. She was the princess, Derek realizes. These two were the stars of the show— and here they are, larger than life, and—

The man sweeps up Stiles in a delighted hug. “Oh my God, you didn’t tell me you were going to be here tonight! I’m so happy to see you!”

“Hey, Scott.” Stiles looks nervous, but pleased. He returns the hug, laughing as Scott swings him around, whooping with joy. “Allison,” Stiles says, with a small smile. “You both were incredible.” Stiles talks with them excitedly about the show, using technical words Derek doesn’t understand, and they easily fall into conversation with one another.  “I know you were struggling with the duality of Odette and Odile, Allison, but it was amazing, like the _fouettes pirouette_ in the coda was perfect and breathtaking. And Scott, man, you were like the epitome of princely dream, okay, so majestic—”

The three of them look close, casually intimate with one another, the way Scott’s arm never leaves Stiles’ shoulders, Allison bracketing them in for a hug, like this is a familiar embrace, and they’ve known each other for ages.

Scott’s eyes dance to Derek standing there, and he looks curiously back to Stiles.

“And, uh, this is Derek, my boyfriend.”

“Hello,” Derek says, waving awkwardly.

“This is amazing! Oh man, I can’t believe you started dating someone and you didn’t tell me!” Scott shakes Stiles with a congratulatory grin.

Stiles’ shoulders slump, and he looks distantly over Scott’s shoulder, at the poster advertising _Swan Lake._ “Yeah, well, you’ve been busy with the show and all, you moved out of our apartment, so we haven’t spent time together— and since I don’t—”

Scott and Allison both look at each other, faces falling. Allison opens her mouth to speak, and then she closes it, and looks at Scott instead. Scott places a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Yeah, it hasn’t been same since you left. But you could totally come back, right? I mean my mom mentioned the other day hanging out with your dad, and he sounded okay—”

Stiles shakes himself free of his friends’ embrace, backing up. “I have to go. Bye, Scott, Allison.” The tone is rough and short, and he pulls Derek back towards the street curb. Scott and Allison look confused, even a little hurt at Stiles’ abrupt departure, and Derek doesn’t know them, doesn’t know what’s going on. He does nod at Scott, who waves at them as they get into the taxi.

Stiles gives the taxi driver Derek’s address, leaning back into the seat and staring morosely into the window.

“So.. your friends seemed nice,” Derek says, for lack of something else to say. He’s got a million questions on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want to probe.

“Yeah, they’re great,” Stiles sighs.

 

* * *

 

The ride back to Derek’s apartment is silent, and Stiles surprises him again by crowding up against him in the elevator, kissing him fiercely and grinding up against him.

“Stiles—” Derek gasps, as his back presses against all the buttons.

Stiles licks into his mouth, demanding and hot, as the elevator stops at each floor before getting to Derek’s floor. Derek lets Stiles drag him down the hallway, fumbles with his keys while Stiles untucks his shirt, sliding his hand up Derek’s chest.

Inside, Derek barely has time to drop his keys before Stiles is pulling him towards the bedroom, stripping Derek efficiently as he goes, and pushing him to the bed. Derek watches Stiles unbutton his shirt with wild abandon, face set in quiet determination, flinging it off his shoulders. He unzips and steps out of his slacks, climbing onto the bed to claim Derek’s mouth in a searing kiss.

Stiles pulls Derek close, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck, falling on his back on the mattress. The kiss is just one breath away from being brutal; Stiles biting at Derek’s lip, harsh and sucking, and Derek pulls back a second, catching his breath. They’ve had rough sex before, but it’s always been playful, Stiles’ eyes lit with joy and pleasure. Right now the set of his jaw is grim, and he reaches for Derek again.

“I need you to fuck me,” Stiles says, panting.

It’s not that different than Stiles’ normal dirty talk, but something about it makes Derek pause. “Are you sure? We don’t have to if—”

“Derek,” Stiles growls. “Fuck me. C’mon.” And then he flips over on his stomach and cants his hips up, shaking his ass.

Derek glances at the bottle of lube on the bedstand, and then back at Stiles. He puts a hand on Stiles’ hip, reaching out to stroke him softly, maybe ease this into a slower cadence, something that isn’t fraught with so much—

Stiles isn’t hard.

Usually Stiles’ body has hair-trigger reactions— Stiles has gotten erect with just Derek winking at him before— so for him not to be aroused after a few minutes of heated making out and groping is really out of the norm.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fucking _okay,_ Derek! Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Derek scoots back on the bed, looking at the tense line of Stiles’ back, the unhappy tilt of his jaw, thinks how he’s been acting all night. He presses a soft kiss to Stiles’ cheek. “Stiles, we don’t have to have sex just because you think it’s the expected ending to our date.”

Stiles pushes himself into a sitting position. “I know that,” he snaps. “I just wanted to— to not think for a little while, and you couldn’t even do that.”

“Stiles—”

“I’m going home,” Stiles says, throwing himself off the bed. He starts picking at the clothes, angrily tossing a pair of pants aside.

“Yours are over here,” Derek says, pointing at where Stiles threw them earlier. “I—”

“Don’t. I’ve got eyes. I can see where my damn clothes are,” Stiles snaps.

Derek watches helplessly as Stiles finds all of his articles of clothing, dumping them unceremoniously at the foot of the bed, picking at his boxers, cursing at an inside-out dress shirt.

“You don’t have to leave,” Derek says in a small voice. “You’re welcome to stay.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just shakes out his pants, pulling a leg inside out.

“I’m sorry I— I know it’s not what you say you wanted, but even if you did want to— I wasn’t comfortable having sex with you just now. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, or don’t want to have you around.” Derek’s heart pounds as Stiles stops fiddling with his pants to look at him, really look at him, as he takes in what Derek’s saying.

Stiles takes a deep breath, dropping the pants, staring right back at Derek. He runs a hand through his hair, all the previous anger slowly bleeding out with the motion, until it’s just Stiles, shoulders hunched, naked and vulnerable. _“I’m_ sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean that you should have fucked me when you didn’t want to— I just— it’s been—”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just gestures towards himself, and opens his arms. Stiles slowly climbs back on the bed and sits next to Derek, about a foot away, eyes downcast and apologetic. He bites his lip and looks at his hands, fiddling with his fingers.

Derek takes both hands in his own, squeezing them tight. Stiles exhales, closing his eyes, and Derek leans and kisses him on the forehead, easy and accepting. And then Stiles lets himself fall into Derek’s arms, just be held, and they don’t speak for a long while. Derek thinks Stiles might have fallen asleep, if not for the rhythmic way his fingers are stroking Derek’s back.

“We’ve only been together a short while, but I want you to know you’re important to me,” Derek whispers. “And whatever you’re going through, whatever’s making you feel this way, you can talk to me about it. I won’t judge. I don’t care what happened to you in the past, or what kind of emotional baggage you have. I’m here for you.”

Stiles buries his face into Derek’s neck. “I— I—”

“You don’t have to tell me anything right now either,” Derek says. “Just… whenever you’re ready.”

Stiles nods into Derek’s chest. His eyes are wet, a few tears falling silently from his face. Derek doesn’t say anything, just holds him until he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning is dull and gray, but the light pours through Derek’s bedroom window anyways, and he blinks awake blearily, yawning. He reaches for Stiles and finds only pillows left in his bed, and the sheets are cold.

He’s alone.

Stiles’ clothes are gone as well. He must have slipped out in the middle of the night.

Derek swallows, trying to ignore the cold pang of hurt in his gut. It’s Saturday, he could have slept in, but he’s already awake. Might as well.

He brushes his teeth and then enters the kitchen and freezes.

Stiles is standing there flipping pieces of French toast, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. He’s wearing one of Derek’s t-shirts and his boxers, and his hair is all mussed with sleep.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

Stiles flips the toast and turns around, smiling at Derek. “You know, you look absolutely ridiculous when you sleep.”

“Yeah?” Derek walks over to say good morning properly, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist.

“Your mouth falls open and you make this weird shuffly noise with your mouth. It’s unfairly adorable, since you’re like, intimidatingly hot when you’re awake, but once you’re out you’re like a damn teddy bear.” Stiles’ voice is bright and flowing like a babbling brook, and he sounds… well, like Stiles. A good sign. “And you’re like an octopus. Literally, I almost can’t move right now and I’m standing up. How did you live without me in your bed?”

“Hmm, pillows or something,” Derek says sleepily. He kisses Stiles on the cheek. “You’re much, much, better, though.”

Stiles makes a pleased hum and sets the French toast on plates, bringing it to the table. They eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Derek asks softly, “How are you doing?”

Stiles finishes chewing and swallows, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He looks at his toast. “I’m… I’m alright. Last night, I— you were just trying to be nice, with the ballet, and it would have been a good surprise, and I do love it, I just—”

Stiles sighs, setting down his fork. He looks morosely across the table at Derek.

“So, um, remember when I first started with _After Dark?”_ Stiles asks.

Derek nods.

Stiles is nervous and fidgety as he starts at the the beginning with what Derek knows: Stiles had first signed on with the studio for a few short solo videos, and to work with a partner— Derek had been the first, he remembers vividly. And then afterwards Stiles had renegotiated his contract and Derek had only seen him sporadically since.

“So the reason why I never worked full time here, is because it was only ever supposed to be for fun, every now and then, and an income supplement. I already had a job. One that I loved. At New York City Ballet,” Stiles says, staring off into the distance.

Stiles is a dancer.

Derek’s always noticed he moved with grace, the tight lithe muscles of his body, but he never knew Stiles was a professional dancer. _Danseur,_ as Stiles says it, voice going melodic as he talks about the ballet, eyes soft and wistful. Derek can tells he loves it, that the ballet is his passion, his dream, why Stiles is in New York in the first place.

He’d gotten a coveted position in the prestigious New York City Ballet, and started training and working hard to perform in their productions. “Me and Scott, we both came out here from California, busted our asses to go to Juilliard and afterwards getting into the same company, it was like a dream. I should have stopped, doing the videos with you guys. I mean, I wasn’t gonna come back, but the money was really good, and—” Stiles blushes — “I liked working with you. A lot. I wouldn’t have come back if it was anyone else, I guess. You were just… really interesting to me.”

Derek reaches across the table and takes Stiles’ hand. Stiles curls his fingers around Derek’s own, and smiles back at him.

“So, at NYCB I wasn’t getting any of the big bonuses or promotions for the leads or anything, but I loved it. And, and, New York is super expensive, and maybe the first few months I partied a bit too hard, spent more money than I should have, but with my income from NYCB and you guys, I was cool.

And then they announced the casting of Swan Lake, which is the current production, as you know. And I was cast as Benno, Prince Siegfried’s best friend and everything. I would have gotten my own solo dance, a huge supporting role, and my own spot in the program instead of being another face in the corps.” Stiles slumps unhappily back in his chair. “My big break. And Jackson fucking ruined it.”

“Jackson?”

Stiles scowls, the words spilling bitterly out of him until it’s a rapid torrent of anger. “This asshole took some of my videos to the fucking board. And it’s so fucking funny, because he’s never had a problem before, and I know he knew, because Danny had a subscription, and they seemed to be cool with it, and I’ve been filming with you guys _forever,_ but then of course, just when I’ve got cast as Benno and he’s my understudy then it’s become some sort of huge moral dilemma he needs to tell to the company board. And then because he figured out there was no way they could have fired me just for having a _side job_ , and I know Monsieur Delacroix was like, _ah, your dancing lately has been so sensual, Stiles, keep up the good work,_ wink wink nudge nudge, no one fucking _cared_ if I did porn on the side, except Jackson showed them these vids of me at NYCB—”

“You were filming with another porn studio?” With someone else, Derek doesn’t say. He tries to tamp down on the jealousy he’s feeling.

Stiles shakes his head. “No, these were old, not with a studio. Just— I was fucking around with Jackson like a year ago, we weren’t serious, just blowing off steam after rehearsals or whatever. And I didn’t think anything of it at the time, since we sent each other sexy snapchats and naked selfies all the time, and sometimes one of us would film each other getting off, for masturbation fodder or whatever. It was fun and sexy and dumb, but like one of the videos I guess Jackson had on his phone as of me jerking it in the ballet studio, in one of my costumes. And there was a sign in the back that identified the studio and stuff. Went to the board of directors and showed them my videos, and all the ones he had of me, and they just called me into a meeting and they were done with me. Fired.”

“He shared a _private_ video of you,” Derek says hotly. “It wasn’t your fault. It was this— this—”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, toying with his fork. “I just… I haven’t really dealt with all of it. I just...left with my tail between my legs.  I could start over, reapply to another company or something, but I’d have to leave the state, since Jackson made sure to email every premier company in New York my videos, ugh. I’m never going to dance in New York professionally, and like, I haven’t really thought about it at all. Like I had no money, no job, and an entire apartment to pay for myself because Scott moved in with Allison— and they just got engaged, there was no way I was gonna bother them with my little problems, and I just— I just thought coming back to _Hale Studios_ and doing full time was the right thing. And then I started dating you and it was easy, not thinking about it.”

Stiles looks up in alarm. “Not that I meant that I was dating you to forget about things, I mean— you’re amazing, I—”

Derek stands up and pulls Stiles out of his chair and into a hug, enveloping him in a tight embrace. He thinks about all the plans he had for this weekend, ideas he had for spending time with Stiles— there were a number of restaurants he’d made a note of, and Stiles had mentioned at some point wanting to go to this food truck battle event thing, and there’s also the zoo, and a concert Stiles might have liked— and throws all of it out the window.

He gently cups Stiles’ chin and kisses him once, neat and chaste. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I know it was difficult.”

Stiles nods, eyes wet and shining.

“Do you want to just… go back to bed with me? We can just cuddle and order takeout and do like, a Star Wars marathon and just, not leave the bed for the entire day.”

Stiles sighs, relaxing into Derek’s arms. “I love you.”

Derek blinks.

Stiles looks up, mouth falling open in surprise. “I mean, I love Star Wars and you’re awesome and I… I…”

Derek kisses him, feeling a warm course of happiness rush through him. “I love you too. I actually… have been wanting to say it for some time, but I thought it might be weird, considering how long we’ve been together.”

Stiles laughs. “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who wanted to say it. Come on, a galaxy far, far, away awaits us!”

 

* * *

 

Stiles falls asleep after _The Empire Strikes Back,_ dozing lightly against Derek’s chest. Derek cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair distractedly, watching the credits roll. He thinks about how Stiles said it was his dream to dance, the look of longing he had, staring at the stage.

Derek wants to give Stiles his dream back.

He slowly untangles himself from Stiles, careful not to wake him up. He pads out of his bedroom and finds his phone in the living room. Derek might not know how to fix this, but he knows someone who might.

“Martin and Associates, to whom may I direct your call?”

“Lydia Martin, please.”

 

* * *

 

Derek gets takeout from Stiles’ favorite Thai place, and brings pad see ew and chicken satay into the bedroom. He sets the food down on the end table next to Stiles, and starts up _Return of the Jedi._

Stiles stirs to life, turning over and inhaling deeply. “Ohhhh you got my favorite foods,” he moans happily, sitting up and grabbing the takeout box.

Derek climbs into the bed, smiling and watching Stiles eat with gusto. Derek picks at his own noodles for a bit, and decides to just go for it. “So what do you think about sueing Jackson?”

Stiles drops his chopsticks. “What?”

“So I talked to my lawyer about the situation, and she thinks it sounded like Jackson was implying that the private video he had of you was distributed publicly as porn.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, he told them it was up with all my other _After Dark_ videos.”

Derek nods. “Well, it wasn’t.”

He’s not great at explaining the legal portion of it, but Stiles gets the gist and thinks the idea is brilliant, and is ready to go full speed ahead with it.

The meeting takes place a few days later, at one of the _Hale Studios_ corporate offices. Jackson and his lawyer are sitting at one edge of the table, looking nervous, and Jeppe Delacroix and his lawyer, representing NYCB are sitting on another side of the table.

Derek and Stiles follow Lydia into the room, her heels clacking ominously on the floor. She makes a dismissive sniff, plopping down a heavy folder on the table. She tucks a curl of hair behind her ear and smirks at the room, sitting down. “You had questions about the charges?”

Jackson’s lawyer, and man with graying hair and an exasperated expression, speaks up. “The charges against my client are unfounded— Jackson Whittemore has never distributed pornographic material.”

Lydia tilts her head. “Mr. Delacroix stated Mr. Whittemore presented to him and the NYCB board of directors with, and I quote, ‘a number of erotic films and videos, one of which depicted Mr. Stilinski engaging in lewd acts at the NYCB studio, with a sign identifying in the background the location as NYCB.’”

Delacroix looks from Jackson to Stiles’ smug face. “That is correct.”

Lydia grins, slow and predatorial. “And you would say the video in question, the one shot at NYCB, is the cause of Mr. Stilinski’s termination?”

Delacroix nods. “NYCB has no such restrictions on what our dancers do outside our studio, if they wish to take on other jobs, as long as their extra activities do not conflict with their dedication to rehearsal and performances. But the recorded sexual acts on company grounds, especially in costume, violates our code of conduct.”

Lydia steeples her fingers together, and Derek is glad to be on this side of the table with her. She’s been on retainer for _Hale Studios_ for a few years, and he’s always found her cutthroat ways intimidating, but she definitely knows her job and does it well. “And where did Mr. Whittemore say all these videos were distributed?”

“This _After Dark_ website.”

Lydia purses her lips, opening her folder, pulling out a complete list of Stiles’ videos offered on the website. “Mr. Hale, an executive producer at _After Dark,_ says this video was not created by the studio, nor is it endorsed by it. In fact, Mr. Whittemore, if you had read the summons completely, you would understand this is why we are charging you with fraud and misrepresentation. My client’s company has a very loyal fanbase that expects a certain level of quality; claiming an amateur production as _After Dark_ material may be a cheap ploy to get noticed, but—”

Jackson bursts out angrily, “You can’t fucking sue me for that! And I never said this one was from your fuckin’ company anyways, it’s not my fault that Delacroix thought it was—”

“So you are in fact, not claiming that this video is part of the _After Dark_ brand?”

“No, it’s mine—”

Jackson’s lawyer jostles him in the arm.

Lydia leans back, pleased.

Delacroix narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, yours?”

Lydia takes out another sheet of paper from her briefcase and slides it across the table. “Mr. Whittemore, this is information provided by your cellular phone company. Here we have a list of all the data used in the past two years. And this, Mr. Delacroix, is an electronic verification tracing the origins of this video to Mr. Whittemore’s mobile device.”

“You _recorded_ Stiles intimately and then used this against him,” Delcroix says, horrified. “This is a disgrace. We’ve always encouraged healthy competition in the company, but this flagrant betrayal of your former _paramour_ ’s trust is the lowest you can sink to. This is not what New York City Ballet is about. You are no Benno, no friend at all. I will not have you perform in Swan Lake, or in any other production of ours. You are terminated immediately as well for lewd conduct.”

Jackson bristles, opening his mouth, and his lawyer grabs him by the elbow, taking all the paperwork on the table. “Thank you for your time, I will be in touch with you regarding the case, Ms. Martin,” he says, and then neatly maneuvers an angry Jackson out the door.

“Stiles, I am so sorry about all this,” Delacroix says. “I know now that the video Mr. Whittemore showed us wasn’t ever made public, but I don’t think the rest of the board will agree to reinstate you in the company.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says. “There’s a lot of good that came out of it.” He smiles and takes Derek's hand, and Derek squeezes back affectionately.

“I could write you a letter of recommendation to the Boston Ballet,” Delacroix offers.

“Maybe in the future,” Stiles says. “I’m actually quite happy where I am right now.” He glances around the room. “If that’s all? I’ve got a class to teach in about twenty minutes.”

~

Derek does a double take when he sees Stiles in one of the new practice rooms, standing there listening to the radio, eyes closed. He’s wearing a pair of nude leggings and nothing else. The fabric clings sensually to the curves of his ass, the waist dipping precariously low on his hips, exposing the cut of his hipbones.

Derek smiles, watching from the doorway; the practice rooms are a new addition to _Hale Studios,_ and they’ve gotten great use out of them so far, not just for training actors and doing choreography, but also for the many classes that they now offer to people outside their employment. People who want to learn about dance and theater and improv and acting, who want practical classes right where they film all the movies, and get the chance to run into producers or directors.

Stiles has flourished here, leading up his own division in choreography and even directing. He’s gone back to NYCB once as a guest performer, to perform _A Midsummer’s Night Dream_ with Scott and the rest of his old friends. Stiles had been spectacular in the show as Puck, graceful and beautiful, every rehearsed movement coming alive.

Here, right now, there’s a raw energy to Stiles’ movement, and he drops and dips his body with a fluid effortlessness. The song is familiar, Hozier’s _[Take Me to Church,](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/110580134510/adayofballet-sergei-polunin-take-me-to-church)_ and Stiles’ interpretation brings to life every bit of desperate passion in the music. There’s a carnal physicality to the way he takes command of the room, and Derek’s mouth goes dry, just watching him dance.

He doesn’t announce his presence, but Stiles seems to know Derek is watching anyways, from the pleased smile on his lips and the way he keeps dancing after the song ends, moving closer and closer to Derek, until he’s standing so close Derek can feel his breath on his face.

Derek is hard and straining against his suit already, has been, from just watching Stiles move. Stiles inches forward, smirking, and Derek leans forward for a kiss, but at the last moment Stiles pulls back, laughing.

“Tease,” Derek says.

“Mmm, no. _This_ is a tease,” Stiles says, lowering his eyelashes, voice going low and sultry. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his leggings, and turns around, pulling them down ever so slowly. He steps out of the material, kicking them away, and gives Derek a knowing look, running his hands up his thighs and then up his chest, dragging out the movement.

Derek steps forward, and Stiles holds still, and this time they do kiss, hot and fierce, Stiles’ naked body flush against his own.

Stiles laughs into the kiss, bright and joyful, and then he’s pulling away, falling into a backbend and then another, tumbling backwards until he’s on his back on the bare hardwood floor. He spreads his legs, licking his fingers slowly.

Derek undresses hastily, suit jacket falling to the floor, quickly joined by his pants.  His tie gets dropped as he makes his way over to Stiles, who is now fingering himself lazily. Derek’s shirt and underwear follow, and Stiles licks his lips, eyes trailing the line of Derek’s body.

Stiles’ body is hot against the cold floor as Derek pins him there, kissing him ardently. Stiles’ hand trail down Derek’s back, grabbing his ass. Their hard cocks rub against each other with delicious friction, trapped between their bodies. Stiles is glistening with sweat, skin flushed a bright rosy pink, and he gasps when Derek takes his wrist, drawing his wet fingers out from where he was stretching himself.

Derek kisses his wrist, and then takes Stiles’ fingers into his mouth, relishing in the sharp taste of him. He lets Stiles’ hand falls to his side, and then holds Stiles’ thighs apart, bending down to lick at his hole.

Stiles quivers at the first touch of Derek’s tongue, and Derek can’t help but smirk into it, twirling his tongue around the edge, watching Stiles’ chest rise and fall, the way he grasps at the floor for something to hold onto, body trembling with pleasure.

Derek loses track of time; luxuriating in how long he can spend here, with his face between Stiles’ thighs, doing nothing but teasing desperate noises from him. He moves to lick at Stiles’ balls, and then along the shaft of his cock, before swallowing it down. Derek barely has had time to get a rhythm going, enjoying the heavy feel of Stiles’ cock in his mouth, when there’s a hand in his hair, impatiently tugging him up. Stiles breathlessly rearranges them, moving so he can reach Derek’s cock as well.

 

[nsfw image ahead, click to skip]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~

 

_[Image description: Derek barely has had time to get a rhythm going, enjoying the heavy feel of Stiles’ cock in his mouth, when there’s a hand in his hair, impatiently tugging him up. Stiles breathlessly rearranges them, moving so he can reach Derek’s cock as well.]_

_~_

The position can only hold for so long— it’s difficult to concentrate, especially as Derek’s cock is engulfed in hot velvet heat, and Stiles’ sinfully pink lips wrapped tight around it. He finally lets go with a lewd _pop,_ saying hoarsely, “There’s lube in my bag.”

The workout bag is all the way across the room, and Derek kisses Stiles quickly before sprinting to the bag and rooting through it, finding a small bottle. He squeezes some onto his fingers, rubbing his hands together to warm it, and turns around to see Stiles touching himself again, one hand on his cock and fingering himself.

Derek watches him, enjoying the sight. “I couldn’t find a condom,” he says, walking over to Stiles and leaning down to kiss him on the inside of his thigh.

“Yeah,” Stiles says breathlessly. “We both got tested and everything, remember?”

Derek does remember; it had been part of the contract for _After Dark,_ but they hadn’t talked about what it meant, what it could mean, at least until recently.

“You want me like this?” Derek asks softly.

Stiles nods. “Please. Come on. Wanna feel all of you.”

Derek rubs a slick hand up and down his cock, and stretches Stiles out with his other hand, slowly moving from one finger to two, to three. Stiles arches his back, and then bats at Derek’s hand until he removes his fingers. He’s open and wet, glistening with slick. Derek eases into Stiles slowly, kisses his forehead as Stiles inhales with the first stretch.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, holding him close.

Stiles is so hot inside, tight and wet, and Derek moves slowly, in tune to the heartbeat he can feel emanating through Stiles’ skin. He kisses Stiles tenderly, on his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, slowly rocking his hips forward into him, savoring every wrecked, desperate noise Stiles makes.

It’s too much; Stiles all around him, Stiles kissing him fiercely, Stiles’ hands in his hair, Stiles crying out and tensing all around him; Derek can feel it when Stiles comes, the way his body goes taut, his eyes dilate and his mouth falls open. Derek keeps thrusting, picking up speed, wanting to follow Stiles into orgasm, and then Stiles crying out, completely undone, cock red and aching, spurting white hot ropes of come, sticky and wet between their chests. Derek groans, thrusting and feeling the filthy come-slick slide of his body on Stiles, until he climaxes, filling Stiles up with a rush of come.

Derek pants, catching his breath, placing his forehead on Stiles’ own.

“You feel incredible,” Stiles whispers.

“Nnnng,” is what Derek can barely say. He feels boneless, like he’s floating on a cloud of hazy pleasure. He pulls out of Stiles slowly, and watches in fascination as come drips out of him, sticky and wet. He takes his fingers and plays with Stiles’ hole, pressing his come back in, looking back at Stiles’ face to see how he likes it.

Stiles’ eyes are glazed over. “This a thing for you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. You’re more of a thing, really.” Derek lays back down next to Stiles, falling still.

“Scott and Allison’s wedding is next week.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“I can’t believe they rented out the entire opera house. Promise me at our wedding, it’ll be small and there will be no, like, live doves getting released or anything.”

Derek turns over to look at Stiles, whose eyes start to widen as he realizes what he’s just said.

“I promise,” Derek says, kissing him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you're interested in watching Swan Lake, there's an entire production available here ([part one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHtNhh3WjYY), [part two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99qd4l193cw)). The solo Stiles would have performed, Benno's Variation, can be seen [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtqvZpnVO3I)
> 
> And if you missed the embed link in the text above, [this dance video](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/post/110580134510/adayofballet-sergei-polunin-take-me-to-church) is an absolute must see. Sergei Polunin dancing to _Take Me To Church_ and it's absolutely breathtaking.
> 
> The idea about a ballet dancer getting kicked out of their company for doing porn was inspired by Jeppe Hansen, also known as Jett Black from CockyBoys. The [entire article](http://www.villagevoice.com/news/theres-drama-on-both-sides-of-the-camera-at-nyc-porn-powerhouse-cockyboys-6440187) is an interesting read, if you want to know about the drama that ensued after he got kicked out of ballet (apparently he didn't play nice with his new friends in porn, and they booted him out too. And then they made a porn about it.)
> 
> And you can find me on tumblr [here.](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com)


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